Made In China

It's official.  Starbucks is poisoning me.  I've been here for two weeks now and every afternoon I'm bent over in pain from the crunchy curlies.  You know, abdominal pain that makes you start praying.

At first I thought maybe it was the food.  But I realized that can't be because I cooked it.  And more importantly I bought the ingredients from the expat market.  Yeah, originally I thought I could shop at the locals market, like I did in Tokyo.  But one trip to the local market and I realized that was not just a very bad idea but potentially life threatening.  The thing is - it was actually a wet market.

Have you ever been to a wet market?  I hadn't either, until now.  It started out promising enough: aisles of rice, noodles and canned goods, all in writing I can't understand.  But I could recognize the pictures - kind of.

When I got to the produce section I started to get a little wary.  There were a lot of things I had never seen before.  Usually this would excite me, inspire me to try something new.  But something didn't seem right.  Perhaps it was the temperature.  It was unusually warm in there.  There were no plastic bags or scales or sprays to temper the fruit and vegetable, just bins of tepid, droopy, foreign vegetables.

And then there was the meat department. Although "department" was clearly not the right word for it.  Slaughter house would be the appropriate term here I believe.  I have abstained from showing any pictures because a) they wouldn't let me take pictures (I can understand why) and b) they would make you sick.

In America we don't ever want to know our food was actually alive and breathing.  We don't call it cow or pig.  We have different names for the byproduct of quaint farm animals like beef and pork, or bacon.  We just don't discuss it. Everything is cleaned up (no blood or veins) and packaged into nifty little unrecognizable pieces that pretty much looks like it was made in a factory.  We don't leave the hoofs on, or the heads.  Not so in China.

The first thing I noticed was the redolence of fresh blood, that thick, heady, unmistakable fetor.  My stomach rolled.  Then I saw the butcher block, in the middle of the room,  still bloody.  In fact, a red runny matter was dripping onto the floor, like heavy syrup down the side of a pancake.  Except this was a bloody pancake.  I took a double take.  That's not, no, it can't be. Is it?  It is.  My stomach lurched.

Then there were what I like to call the "bloody bins."  Yes, bloody bins.  There were no signs on the bins, not even in Chinese.  I guess you don't need a sign to tell you this bin contains dead baby ducklings.  Yes, dead baby ducklings.   Not only that, but you had your choice of flesh colored or black.  Black?!  What the?!!!

The ducklings were just one of the atrocities I discovered in the bloody bins.  The other bins were filled with many heinous acts of barbarity: chickens (again black or flesh tones), head still on, or bins filled with just the clawed chicken feet.  There were bins of pig feet and various mystery meats I didn't dare guess at.

Oh my God.  It was like a Wes Craven film. I half-expected Freddy Krueger to jump out from behind the dirty plastic curtains with a hack saw.  My exodus was fast and efficient.

You know I'd heard of wet markets.  But in my mind they played differently.  The markets in my head were filled with bags of spices, colorful tents filled with baskets of alluring strange fruit.  The vendors grinned happy toothless smiles and handed out samples.   Sure there were live chickens and ducklings.  But I could still convince myself these would soon be pets, not dripping off a butcher block.  Ugh.

So yeah no local market shopping for me.  I found April Gourmet where the meat is actually pre-cleaned, under glass, and refridgerated, with signs that not only tell you what it is but where it came from.  And I don't mind paying five to ten times more than the local market.  I want to live. Sigh of relief.

This is why I knew the stomach aches were not coming from the food.  I realized they were coming from my local Starbucks when I stopped drinking coffee for a few days and the mysterious illness went away.  When I started drinking it again, the illness came back, just like pigeons when you throw them bread crumbs.

Yeah well, I followed the bread crumbs and they lead me to the horrible realization that my local Starbucks, the one I depended upon every morning, was in fact, counterfeit.  I'm not kidding.  I had read that most of the Starbucks in China were counterfeit.  Of course I didn't believe them.  Until now.  The realization made me pale.

And not only this, other things started to make themselves known.  The lobby of my apartment building, the one I so charmingly compared to a W hotel.  Well the other day I was walking through it on my way out and I noticed an alarmingly large piece of  marble on the floor.  Apparently it had fallen off the wall of the elevator bank.  Nobody had seemed to notice it.  Nobody noticed it for several days.

Then a couple days later, buckets appeared in the lobby to catch the dribble of a mysterious fluid dripping from the ceiling three stories up.  A couple of days later, after I repeatedly asked when the leak was going to be fixed, a giant hole appeared where the leak was, or rather, still is, and more buckets have appeared to catch the offensive liquid.

Then I discovered that most of those beautiful buildings erected for the Beijing Olympics, were falling apart.  Falling apart even though they had been built less than ten years ago.  It seems the Chinese build beautiful structures that don't last.  At least the new structures that is.  I mean the Forbidden City is still standing.

Suddenly "Made In China" has a brand new meaning for me.

But more importantly, what am I going to do about my coffee?

Great Wall of China - Bring Water and Toilet Paper

The first time someone mentioned the Great Wall of China to me, in China, it wasn't in reference to a place I had to see.  They were talking about a great place to exercise.  Exercise?  Huh?  "Oh yeah, they said enthusiastically, "we go hiking on the Great Wall all the time! It's outstanding hiking."  

Even though they said that I was not prepared for what they really meant.  I read the guide books.  They corroborated their story, at least the fact there are trails you can hike up to the wall.  They mentioned taking a gondola to the wall.  I thought that just meant the wall was up on a hill.  

I didn't realize it meant the wall itself was a hiking trail.  Oh my, were we in for a shock. Great doesn't really capture it.  

First of all the wall is not contiguous and you can't see it from space.  Wait a minute - what?

The wall was built 400 to 200 years before Christ by rival kingdoms to thwart advances by enemies. There are sections of the wall all through Northern China.  The sections don't all connect.  The Chinese call it "Wanli Changcheng" which means, "Very Long Wall."  Thanks, I would never have guessed that.

Second it takes an hour, due to traffic, to get to the closest part of the wall from Beijing and Beijing is the closest major city to the wall.  It reminds me of New Orleans.  I used to think plantations with oak lined driveways were in New Orleans.  It wasn't until I actually stayed in one did I learn the closest plantation to New Orleans is an hour outside the city.

After reading the guide books I decided we were going to hike up to the Great Wall of China, tool around for a while on the wall, and hike back down.  The best laid plans....

Most tourists visit the Ba Da Ling section of the wall.  China is already populated and mad as it is, I didn't want to have to fight even more crowds so I chose the Mutianyu section of the wall which, allegedly, is less crowded.

Our driver, otherwise known as Joe Pesci given his one-word English vocabulary "OK", picked us up in his customary driving uniform - shorts and a polo shirt.  It didn't take very long to get out of Beijing and into the countryside which was surprisingly flat and green.  It was a one of those days.  The one day out of ten in Beijing when it is actually Sunny. The horizon is not cloaked in brown and you can almost breathe. Almost.

Since being there for two weeks I'd noticed a pattern.  Basically you get about one clear, sunny day in ten.  The first day starts out beautiful. The sun is shining. Plants are green.  The sky is blue.  Then each day the pollution builds, piles on another layer of brown, until the sky is so dark and heavy with grime you can take a putty knife and scrape it off your face.  Then around day ten, when the sky is bulging and pregnant from pollution, the skies erupt and bleed out the grime in the form of a refreshing acid rain. Rinse and repeat.

Even the government encourages their citizens to take cover when it first starts raining.  Course they don't tell you it's because you might literally get burned by acid rain. You wouldn't want to get wet would you? Bring a lead umbrella.

So on this one glorious day in ten we arrive at a huge parking lot stuffed with more fuming tour buses than Disneyland in June.  So much for less crowded.  You can't really see the wall from the parking lot, or the gauntlet of vendors along the path to the entry gate.  However, there is an old Chinese woman selling puppies of dubious breed out of a box.  They are adorable but way too young to be weaned and I shudder to think where they'll end up.  The Chinese do not eat dog anymore, at least not in Beijing I've been told.

Russell takes one look at the situation, the situation being the wall is not in plain sight and the gondola seems to go up a long, long way into oblivion, and refuses to hike up.  "I'm not hiking up to the wall.  I'll take the gondola up and hike down but I'm not hiking up," he states emphatically.  Since it was only about 95 degrees at ten in the morning he did have a point.  And from the look of his stance it was obvious there was no use arguing.

Taking the gondola was the smartest thing we did all day.  It was a pleasant ride, even without any apparent safety devices.  As we ascended the wall came into view and GREAT does NOT describe it.

AMAZING would be a much more accurate description.

I guess I thought it would be like walls in the U.S.  You know, where we level the Earth, and everything in its path, including entire communities, and build an even, flat wall.  Oh no.  This wall was built before tractors and Tonka trucks.  This wall was built by hand.  Basically they built the wall directly on top of whatever was in its path.  Because of that the wall capitulates over gullies and crags, precipices and valleys.  It is truly incredible and more challenging than a step machine on the highest resistance setting. 

Ohhhhh, now I get it.  "I told you, " Russell announces triumphantly as we step off the Gondola and on to the platform.  There's a shaded patio with an astounding view of the wall in both directions.  A vendor sells much needed refreshment. Hoards of people of all nationalities pant heavily, their faces red and puffy, their souvenir t-shirts sweat stained.

"Shall we?" I suggest hopefully, trying to get Russell away from the enervated crowd before he realizes this will soon be him.

We begin hiking.  We spend a couple of hours traversing, scaling, climbing, (no literally), and panting, on the wall.  Some places are so steep you have to use your hands. No joke.  We pass frighteningly obese tourists hyperventilating, threatening to pop like over-ripe tomatoes in the sun.  They're far from the shade and I wonder, will they be able to make it back?  Will we?  Where's the airlift evac pad?

My goal was to hike to the end of this section of the wall where I read you can view some of the parts that have not been rehabilitated.  Most of the wall is crumbling from time and erosion.  Only a few parts have been refurbished for the tourist trade.

Incredible not merely "Great"

You want me to climb what?

Where's the elevator?

Do not adjust your screen - this is the actual grade.

Um, yeah.

Hands and feet, hands and feet. Just 2,000 uneven steps more.

About every 100 yards there's a turret which offers much needed shade from the merciless heat and pitch of the wall.  Russell's like, "can we go now?"

What goes up must go down, a lot.

Just to the top of that hill honey. I promise.

Actually we didn't hike that way.  We did hike to the end of the stretch of the wall I chose and found the path that lead to the ruins.  The path was apparently used as a latrine since there aren't any bathrooms along the wall.  At least not officially.  In one of the turrets I almost stepped on a pile of human feces.  Oh my God!  I thought I was back in Beijing for a minute.  Really!!!? Heinous!!!!

The path to the ruins was green and leafy and reeked of urine.

Almost more amazing than the wall itself, I was able to convince Russell to hike down instead of taking the gondola.  The trail, just like Tokyo, was paved, with helpful signs along the way.  Like the one below.

What about clothed flames?

Most of the trail was shaded, which was nice.  But I couldn't help thinking how fun a slide would be.

When we got to the bottom we thought our exertions were finally over but they had only just begun.  

Getting through the gauntlet of vendors is a gargantuan challenge, requiring tremendous strength, tenacity, resourcefulness and bravery.

Every vendor had a story to tell, mostly guilt ridden and designed specifically to evoke sympathy and generosity out of gullible tourists. Apparently the more guilt induced, the higher the price they can get for their goods.

Oh my God, Thailand has nothing on the sellers along the Great Wall.   They should call it the "Great Scam."   These vendors are amazing actors - Academy Award caliber story tellers.  Steven Spielberg could learn a few things.  

I tried to grab Russell and rush him through but he wouldn't hear of it.  He likes to haggle.  He thought he could handle the heat.  He actually thought he could get a good deal.  He spent almost as much time on the vendors path as he did on the wall.  Now I was the one moaning, "Can we go now?"

At the end we made it out with a "hand-made" parasol, "authentic Chinese military hat" and "real military pins."  Uh huh, pull this leg and it plays Jingle Bells.

I"ll buy that for a dollar.

Everyone Knows Americans Carry Diseases

So Russell informs me I am required to have a National Health Screening in order to be issued a resident Visa.

The health screening consists of eight different stations or testing areas.  The testing facility is an hour out of Beijing near the Summer Palace.

I ask him if anyone in is office has been through this, assuming naturally they all have as most of them are in fact not Chinese.  I am specifically interested in knowing if a woman in his office has been through the screening.  I want to know what to expect. Like, for example, does one of these tests include an, um, "female examination?"  I am not relishing this idea at all.

He says he'll ask around.  Of course when he had his test, it didn't include stirrups and lubricant.

He asks around and discovers that, apparently, not everybody has to have a National Health Screening. What do you mean? I say wonderingly.  There are Germans, English, South African and Australians in his office.  None of them had a screening.  In fact it appears only Americans have to be screened. What the?  Oh, that's right, us Americans are notorious for carrying diseases, especially STDs.

Nice.  They want to make sure we don't have an STD or Aids or Stupidity?  Foreigners are not allowed to work in China unless they have a minimum of a bachelors degree and two years work experience.  Or maybe that's just Americans.  I didn't ask specifically.

On the morning of the test my driver, Hiro, who looks like an Asian Baby Huey in an orange and brown striped Charlie Brown polo shirt and shorts, waits for me anxiously.  The only English word he knows is "Ok".  He smiles enthusiastically when he sees me. He rushes around the car to open my door for me, all the while, saying "Ok.  Ok, Ok, Ok."  I feel like I'm being driven around by Joe Pesci.

We drive the hour in heavy traffic in silence.  For some reason he doesn't like to have the radio on when he's driving, although I know he listens to it really loud while he's waiting. Perhaps it has to do with concentrating. The first time the driver picked me up from the airport Russell implored me NOT to watch him drive.  He was right.  Driving, that is being driven in China, is harrowing.

The Chinese drive their cars like they drive their bicycles: e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e.  Lanes and traffic signals are merely a suggestion.  Extra points are awarded for hitting people.  There is no safety proximity bubble; cars travel within an Angstrom of each other. 1,500 new drivers are added to Beijing roads everyday.  90% of the drivers are newbies.  It's like being on the 405 with newly minted teenage drivers high on Mountain Dew and violent video games.  HELP.  I've learned not to watch.  If you do, you have nightmares, high blood pressure and persistent white knuckles.  Instead, I daydream about Triscuits and Sees Candies.

When we arrive my driver consorts with the parking attendant.  Somehow he arranges to park the car in a no-parking area close to the front entrance. It's about 100 degrees out here.  Some road workers on break under a scanty tree comment enthusiastically when I get out of the car.  There's that universal gesture for "Big American Breasts," I've begun to recognize where ever I go.

Hiro rushes me to the check-in desk where the attendant takes my information without any human emotion, in spite of my dimpled smile and cleavage, and brusquely points in the direction of the stairs to the first testing area.  Hiro grabs my purse and my paperwork and rushes me upstairs.  When he gets upstairs he barks out to an attendant.  It always sounds like they're arguing.  He rushes me towards a curtain.

Behind the curtain they make me step on a scale and record the retched number into the computer.  Thankfully it's in Chinese so I can't read it.  Same with my height.  A man in a white coat listens to my chest.  Apparently my heart is beating so I am passed on to the next station.

Next I am asked to lay on a table in a dimly lit room.  The woman gestures for me to pull up my shirt and then freezes me, while she does an ultrasound on my abdomen.  She informs me, in a loose translation of English, that she is checking my kidney and gall bladder.  She seems genuinely surprised when she grunts out "good" at the conclusion.   What was she expecting - aliens?

Next I am escorted into another room where an attendant who looks like he's 15 hangs a heavy lead poncho over me, points at the machine and runs into the other room. He's laughing with another guy behind the glass.  I look around confusedly.  I guess I'm supposed to stand here?  A buzzer sounds.  He's impatient with me.  Apparently that was the cue to take off the lead.  He practically pushes me out the door.

The next room I am asked to read an eye chart.  It's the kind where you have to point to the direction the letters are facing.  The man behind the chair looks kind until I don't understand his next question.  My driver erupts at my side and gestures wildly at some piece of paper taped to the desk.  After a minute of blond confusion I realize I'm supposed to read the piece of paper that has two squares with an odd design.  One design is red; one is green.  Oh, I get it - it's a depth perception/color blind test.  I blush, blurt out my answers and I guess I pass because we run down the stairs to the last test stations.

My driver, still carrying around my purse and my paperwork, thrusts me into the next room, almost interrupting the previous test in progress.  His urgency to protect me and get me through the exam is endearing, if not comical.  He takes his duties very seriously.

So far no stirrups.  Good.

A young woman gestures for me to lay back and pull up my shirt and soundlessly and efficiently attaches electrodes to my chest and other vital areas for an EKG.   Thirty seconds later she hands me a paper towel and gestures towards the door.

The next attendant takes my temperature, pulse and blood pressure.

The last room takes my blood. Another vial gone.  I wonder what it will reveal.  It looks the same color as the others collected from patients before me.

I am relieved.

We rush to the check out counter.  Why are we running I wonder?  She intimates we are finished and asks if we want to come back in four hours for the results or pay to have them delivered.  Pay for delivery; I'm not coming back here. She grunts out something to my driver who takes my arm and pulls me to a stand in the middle of the room where a good looking twenty something year old man stands smiling pleasantly.

He speaks good English and takes my address and money for the delivery.  And we're done.

The whole process took 30 minutes, literally.  Two hours of driving time for 30 minutes of exams that would have taken a minimum five appointments at different doctor's offices and hours of insurance forms in the U.S.

Well, at least they're efficient I muse as Hiro hands me my purse, opens my door, and says "Ok?"

Holy Crap!

What is the deal?!!

Every day when I walk to the Starbucks to retrieve my daily ration of lucidity I see someone spitting, peeing or shitting.  I am not kidding.  I am not exaggerating.  I thought the ogling was distracting; this is disgusting!!!

I keep reminding myself China was a third world country as frequently as 40 years ago.  "Third World" meaning lack of Starbucks, shiny automobiles and shopping malls.  Well... all the neon shopping malls and shiny Toyotas in China do not make up for the lack of manners.

The official sound of Beijing is literally somebody expectorating as loudly and violently as possible. If there was an audio description in the dictionary of the average Chinese man on the street, this would be it.  It is sooooo gross.

I mean the children do not wear diapers! They wear split crotch outfits.  Yes, I said split-crotch.  They have no underwear on under their split crotch Baby Gap knock offs.  They are encouraged to stoop down and pee anytime they feel the urge.  Clearly this carries into adult hood as it seems like anytime I turn a corner in Beijing, some grown man is peeing against the wall, albeit standing up.

Invariably every other morning I come around the corner of my apartment building and there's someone being held over the flower bed or trash can pooping.  It's like they're walking their dog but it's an adorable toddler.  What the hell?  At least you carry a doggie doodoo bag when you pick up after your dog.  Well, except not here.

Walking is a very dangerous proposition in Beijing.  If you're not being bounced off the sidewalk by a newly licensed Chinese driver, (sidewalks are merely another travel lane), you're hopscotching over multi-colored phlegm, urine or worse.

Wear close toed shoes!

Seriously?

Coming out of the ether that is chronic jet log, coffee was the first thing on my mind.  Where is the nearest java distributor I mumbled incoherently? There has to be a Starbucks somewhere nearby.

To my delight, there was one adjacent to our apartment building.  Just eight short floors down the elevator and a 25 yard jaunt to the corner of my building and the connected shopping center, my need could be quenched and caffeine could be mainlined into my system.  Interestingly it was slightly more expensive than the U.S., albeit significantly cheaper than Tokyo.  The attendants were friendly but not fluent.  I had to use the point and pay technique.

Fully functioning, the next need was internet access.  I tried unsuccessfully to link to Starbucks free wi-fi.  But you have to have a Chinese phone number in order to receive your access code mobily. New word.

So I hauled by caffeinated butt and my laptop to the nearest Apple store in Sanlitun, expat capital of Beijing and state of the art shopping mecca a 10 minute walk away, in order to pirate their wi-fi.  It worked!  Ahhh. I'm connected with the world once again.

Except for I can't access my blog, or Facebook or Youtube.  What the?!!!  At least I could get my email and Skype on so I could let my sister know I had arrived safely.

As I happily emailed I noticed a small crowd of men forming in front of me, not more than a foot and a half away.  What is it with the Chinese and their spatial lackability?  They were having an animated conversation, discussing something with much enthusiasm.  They seemed to be staring at something in my direction.  What are they looking at?! And why are they standing so close to me, I thought irritably, turning around to see what was behind me.  Nothing.

Then I noticed their gesticulations.  If I'm not mistaken that is the universal hand signal for breasts.  And  it dawned on me, pun intended, they were discussing mine.  What the hell! They were staring at and discussing my chest.  It was about 85 degrees at 9am so I was wearing a sundress.  It didn't even show much cleavage but I guess the fact is I actually have cleavage, a rarity in China.  You would think they'd never seen a blond woman with breasts before.

Geez!  In Tokyo nobody ever noticed me. Yet here in Beijing I had drawn a crowd.  Yikes!
I was extremely self-conscious.  They had no qualms whatsoever about ogling me.  That would never happen in Japan; it would be considered impolite.  But China is decidedly different.

That evening when I walked back to Sanlitun, dressed for dinner in a casual dress with no exposed cleavage, a young Chinese man literally ran ahead of me and walked backwards, in front of me, so he could check me out.  Does he know I can see him?

A few days later I was running on the treadmill in the fitness room of our apartment building.  It's on the ground floor and the floor to ceiling windows afford a view of the drivers waiting to pick up their clients as you work out.  And apparently it affords a nice view for people walking by.

A Chinese man stopped to watch me run on the treadmill for 15 minutes!!! The reason I know this is because I was watching the clock desperately, willing the clock to count down faster.  I pretend that counting the minutes makes the time actually go by faster and the run hurt less.  It doesn't, but watching the clock allowed me to measure exactly how many minutes this clown actually stood there, staring at me with a foolish grin on his face.  Seriously?!!!  He literally stood there for 15 minutes watching me bounce up and down, up and down, sweating profusely, trying to avoid his lecherous eyes.

You have got to be kidding!!!

Conversely the Chinese women seem to be completely self-possessed.  Every time they walk by any reflective surface, and I mean anything: a window, a shiny street sign, a puddle,  they pause to admire themselves. The few times I have walked through the adjacent shopping mall, the sale girls are invariably standing in front of the fitting room mirrors examining their reflections.  Even the apartment representative, this cute twenty something woman, cannot walk past the lobby windows without staring at herself the entire time.  It's really hard to have a conversation with someone when they're admiring themselves in the window the entire time.  What is the deal?!!!  Don't they own a mirror at home?

Once, while waiting for Russell to get some cash for lunch at the bank, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored curio cabinet in the waiting room.  Of course I immediately glanced away, but not before noticing the petite, attractive Chinese woman posing behind me.  First she turned to the right and eyed herself admiringly, then she flipped her long black hair provocatively and gazed over her left shoulder into the mirror smolderingly, completely immune to anyone else in the crowded bank.

Seriously?!

Not for all the tea in China but maybe for Prada

So the question everyone has is, “now what?” followed by, “are you going to go back to work.”  I am not prepared for either of these questions.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  The plan was to be in Japan for three years, minimum.  The plan was to finish my book, try to get it published and then figure out what to do then.

We can’t even go back to our house in Long Beach. It’s rented until 2013.

But now back in Los Angeles, at the Oakwood, the pressure is on but the answers are not.  Russell has several job opportunities, in spite of turning down two already.  His boss made good on his promise and offered him two jobs, one of them is in Beijing.  As in China.  China!

We went on a looksee trip.  I was there for three days.  After the second day, I was questioning why anyone would want to live there.  It was freezing cold, polluted and rude.  It wasn’t like Tokyo, at all.  I thought it would be.  I was wrong.

The people were rude.  They always seemed to be expectorating.  It was disgusting. 

The food was good, better than America, but not as good as Tokyo.

There was new building going on everywhere.  Because of this, everything was coated in a fine layer of dust.  The cars, the streets, and all the apartments I looked at.  I looked at a lot of apartments and some villas.  Like a target, Beijing is ringed by five concentric circles, or ring roads, that circle the city center.

According to Beijing law, dogs larger than 15 inches at the shoulder, Ranger is 18 inches, are not allowed within the 5^th ring.  However, according to our real estate agent, this rule does not really apply to expats.  Huh?

Before flying to Beijing I’d spent a couple of hours online, scaring the shit out of myself, reading about dogs in China.  That is: reading about dog massacres and dogs on the menu.  It seems the Chinese government thinks dog owners are lazy.  Until China received a lot of bad press just before the Olympics, dogs were massacred en masse.  Um, yeah, this does not sound good.

But of course, everyone in China assured us, this was all just propaganda.  There are lots of large dogs in the city.  Uh huh.

A lot of expats live in villa compounds, which are gated communities, designed after familiar neighborhoods in the States.  It was surreal.  One neighborhood looked exactly like a community you would expect to find in North Jersey with bricked brownstone townhouses.  Another looked like an Orange County neighborhood with stucco houses and blond women pushing 1.5 kids in strollers, golden retriever in tow.  The one I liked best was called Beijing Riviera – a picturesque planned community of French country manors.  It was like living outside of Paris, without the croissants and well, the French.

The only problem is, all the villa compounds are located outside the city, a minimum of a one hour commute in.  A driver is required.  Driver?  Yes.  Apparently foreigners are not even allowed to apply for a driver’s license until they have lived in the country for one year.  And the driver’s test is so convoluted it’s almost impossible to pass.  A majority of the questions have nothing to do with driving, more to do with China communist axioms. We thought Japan was hard? But even if you could pass the test you wouldn’t want to drive in Beijing. 

Driving in Beijing is worse than driving in Manhattan. This is not an exaggeration. Traffic lanes are taken as a vague suggestion.  The shoulder and sidewalks are code for “fast lane.”  There are no rules.  Worse, over 90% of the drivers on the road are brand new.  A reported 1,500 new cars, that is new drivers, are added daily.  Daily.  There are already so many cars, a lottery has been established prohibiting drivers from being on the road one day a week.  Yep.

But besides the long commute, living in one of the villa compounds means I would be isolated from the best part of Beijing.  I know I said “best”.  The one good thing I found in my brief visit was the astounding growth of the city.   It reminded me of the internet boom.  Remember that?  The promise of instant IPO induced wealth, Crystal champagne flowing, flagrant, unapologetically conspicuous spending. And I thought this was a communist country?  What the hell?!!  This place is more capitalistic than 5^th Avenue at Christmas.  That’s how it feels in Beijing.  There are shiny, state of the art shopping centers going up every where - dazzling buildings flashing with neon and multi-floor digital advertisements encouraging the populace to keep spending, keep shopping, keep imbibing.  I like to spend.  I like to shop. I definitely like to imbibe. Exciting.

Within the city center, skyscraper communities are created just for expats and given familiar, idyllic names like Palm Springs and Central Park.  They are cities onto themselves, with grocery stores, dry cleaners, beauty salons and the ubiquitous Starbucks on every corner.  My favorite is a brand new development called Xanadu.  Yes, Xanadu, like the frothy 1980’s movie starring Olivia Newton-John as a muse.  It’s all dark wood, chrome, and white leather furniture, sunken bathtubs and high-end stainless appliances.  This could work.  I could see us living there, at least on the ground floor.  While I would LOVE to live on the 25^th floor looking over the sprawling city, I don’t think the residents would appreciate riding up multiple stress filled floors with Ranger – aka menace to society.

Speaking of dogs, we saw a lot of large dogs frequently, which was just slightly more reassuring.  Whenever we encountered an English probable dog owner, I asked them about relocating their dog.  The answers were all the same. Make sure to get your dog registered and whatever you do, DO NOT allow your dog to be put into quarantine. Dogs die there.  G-r-e-a-t.

On the third day Russell arranged for us to have drinks with one of his former associates who lives in Beijing.  He told me I could ask him anything.  “Anything?” I asked doubtfully, a glint in my eye.  “Anything,” he replied.  Ok, here goes.

My first question was, “Why would anyone want to live here?”  He laughed and replied with a question or was it a statement.  “You just came from Tokyo didn’t you?” 

“Yes, why?,” I replied suspiciously.  He said, “Everyone who comes to Beijing from Tokyo says that.  Everyone expects it to be like Tokyo.  It’s nothing like Tokyo.”  No shit, I thought.

“Think of it this way,” he suggested helpfully.  “Beijing is like Manhattan.”

Excellent explanation.  Beijing is absolutely analogous with New York. If someone had told me that before I came, it would have been exactly what I expected.  Beijing is exactly like New York, albeit before Mayor Giuiliani cleaned it up.  “Oh, now I get it,” realization dawning on me like a blush after a stolen kiss.

Hmmmm.  That perspective changes everything.

“Beijing Blond” does have a nice ring to it.  Hmmmm